


Remember Me Remastered

by doberman



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Scottish Brogue, Trauma, Violence, dont let the tags scare you, ninety five percent sad john price tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-26 07:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13231359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doberman/pseuds/doberman
Summary: Rated M for gore, sex, adult themes and language. Don't read if you dislike M/M pairing. I started this fic ages ago and never finished it, so I decided to give it another go. After a painful wait of cues and tension, Price and Soap finally admit their feelings for each other. Things are going good, but what happens when Soap dies? There is a medication that can bring him back, however he won't remember the past. What will Price do? Will Soap ever remember his true love?





	1. Last Words

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave reviews and what not, they're extremely helpful and motivational.

"P-Price…" Plump, scarred lips trembled as he attempted to speak.

"Soap, don't talk, just rest…" Price ordered, pressing against the younger soldier's chest; trying to maintain pressure on numerous wounds.  _How he hated multi-tasking._ He only had so many bloody hands, but he’d willingly do anything for Soap.

" ** _Price…"_** Soap ground out again, however, the weakness in his voice foreshadowed only the painful outcomes Price refused to acknowledge. Still, Price raised a brow, his delicate gaze softening as he at least acknowledged Soap's obvious plea for him to _listen_.

Price gave a nod, go on son, prompting Soap’s hand to gravitate towards Price as though the man were a magnet.  
             The feeling of the other’s hand tightening around his own was like instant pain release, unaware that his current grip had the potential to break bone due to the surges of pain flashing through him, lightening accompanying his storming mind. " _Makarov… knows… Yuri…"_

Absent, with the exception of frantic desperation as he inwardly begged Soap to continue drawing breathe, the words are sucked up as if by an unseen sponge, subconscious soaking them up while allowing Price to deal with the current situation. Thick eyebrows knitted together in a harsh frown as Soap declined, becoming limp. Disbelief, more than anything coursed through him. There was an element of betrayal, from his perspective. Soap had played himself out to be this hard bastard who could handle anything. But before Price lay the scene that proved all he thought he knew about Soap as a lie. As it turned out, the lad wasn’t as indestructible as Price had mapped him out to be. He’d set himself up for this hurt, but there was no way he wanted to even consider breaking that down right now.

" _Y-You… need to know…"_ The younger soldier muttered, trying to pull Price closer.

Obviously obeying, the older man leant in, so much so that he was almost _on top_ of the wounded man.  _It wouldn't be the first time…_   **This wasn’t the time.**  "Need to know what?"

Slow. That wasn't even the word to describe it. _Painfully_ slow. Agonising torture. Price waited patiently for as long as a man could when his partner was dying. " _What do I need to know?"_

In what Price deemed to be one of the most gentle, fragile whispers, Soap replied.  _"I…I'm sorry."_

Surprised by the words, Price momentarily considered what Soap had to be sorry for. Had he done something? Had he said something?

The older man then felt something against his ear, something familiar. It was the wonderful, steamy, hot breath that belonged to Soap; caressing the soft skin that covered his  _lucky_  cheek. It could only mean one thing.

" _I l-love…I lo-"_ MacTavish was interrupted, his internal systems shutting down causing him to wheeze. His breath was growing short and raspy, a clear sign of panic, his body instinctively shivering and shaking in the arms of his Captain.

Price whined, holding Soap closer; or as close as he could without injuring him further.  _"You love_ _what? Who_ _?"_

Soap could only give a weak smile, ever the character even on his death bed, before it faded into a painful, sad, lonely frown.  _"_ _I love_ _…"_ the expression fell solid, like rock. The type of rock you knew would be lonely if it were _alive_. The type of rock that has been around for decades, having to watch its friends and family kicked around, thrown into the sea. His expression was one Price never wanted to see, never wanted to _witness_.

The younger soldier winced, lifting his gloved index finger to Price's chest, as if pointing at him.  _You._

Then, Soap coughed, allowing the darkness to truly take him as it swept over his mind like a chilled blanket. He’d always expected death to be a sweet release, silent and full of relief. Yet here he was, aching from the pain and regret, surrounded by the violent thundering of bloodthirsty guns. It was horrible.  
                          Searing suffering right up until his final breath, he forces one last weak smile at Price before stilling, his chest unmoving, lips parted and eyes wide and staring, eerily vacant. The shaking had stopped, and the warm heat against Price’s cheek faded to nothing. Soap’s hand slipped from Price’s grip and his arm hit the table with a thud.

" _No_ _…"_  Price uttered, gazing down at the lifeless body of his friend, dare he say,  _lover._   _"_ _No… no, no,_ ** _no, NO!_** _"_ His voice suddenly raised, shaky and full of anguish _._ " ** _SOAP! NO!_** _" Distraught, Price clutched at Soap’s chest, pulling him up from the table and shaking him, as though trying to wake him from_ _sleep_ _.  
            Soap __wasn’t indestructible_ _. None of those around him were. But he’d opened himself up to Soap. He connected with him. Soap meant more to him than he’d ever dared to express, and his mind was flooded with the sudden awareness that his friend was gone. The stop sign had been planted and Price would have to go on without him._

"Price! You have to _go_ , now!" One of the men that had been watching the windows had now decided to appear, most definitely at the _wrong_ time, placing a hand on the Captain's shoulder.

"Ge’ off me!" Price snarled, _shoving_ the man away from him.

_He's gone. He's really gone._

Turning back to the unmoving body, he watched for a moment, trying to hold back the emotions that begged for release. _Men don’t cry_. The other had been right though, Price did need to go if he wanted to survive. Soap wouldn’t want him to just give up there and then, no matter how the exhaustion tried to barter with him. He pulled out the M1911 pistol that sat in his back holster, and slowly, carefully placed it on Soap's chest. A pistol full of _many_ memories. Just above a heart so _full_ of meaning.

_No more._

" _I'm sorry_ _…"_  Price whispered, pulling his journal from one of his vest’s pockets before lowering his head onto Soap's shoulder, pressing an unseen kiss on the dead man's ear.  _"_ _I'm so sorry, Soap._ ** _I love you too_** _._ _"_


	2. Memory One

“It’s so bloody  _cold_ ,” Soap complained, dusting the snow from his boots so it didn’t melt in the tent and piss everyone off,  _more_  than they already were. Or maybe it was just him.

“Not complainin’ again are you, Captain?” Ghost chuckled, his voice taut from the weather, typical British hoarse.

“Maybe I am, maybe ah’m not. It’s none of your concern,” The Scot replied harshly. He’s too damn  _cold_  for banter.

Ghost could only hum, cocky in the presence of Roach.

"Leave 'im alone you two. Just 'cause 'e's done eighty times more work than you today doesn't mean you can take the  _piss_ ," Price interrupted, his voice a husky vibrato.

Soap smirked, shivering. You’d think for a man with as much muscle as him, he’d be comfortable. Then again, it was fat that kept you warm, and god forbid having any of that on him. Nonetheless, Price appreciated his work? What an honour.

"Oi!" Ghost snapped.

Price glared in response, challenging if he  _really_  wanted to argue with his Captain.

"Uh… never mind…" The soldier stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't ‘ave anything t’ say anyway…" He grumbled.

“Wow, impressive,” Roach remarked.

"What was tha’, Bug boy?” Ghost glared.

“The mask is misleading.”

“Oh yeah? ‘ow so?” Even with the sunglasses on, one could tell the Brit was squinting.

“Well I mean it’s a skull, and yet you appear to have no backbone,” Roach smirked.

_ “I’ll show you  _ _ bone _ _  you little runt!” _  Ghost gripped Roach by the shoulder as he got to his feet, dragging his victim out of the tent for some form of a beating.

Rolling his eyes, Soap grunted.  _"_ _Kids_ _…"_  he complained, laying himself down so that he could rest his head on his hat, which he’d rolled up. The low snort of his Captain drew his attention, eyes blinking open. " _What_?" He asked.

"Nothing," Price replied, his gaze full of amusement as it settled on the younger man's face.

"No, go on, ya might as well tell me. It's not like we've got anythin'  _else_  t' talk about."

Price sighed. "You really do complain a lot, mate," he grinned.

"I learnt fr’m th’ best," Soap smirked.

"Oi!" The older man barked, defensive, yet knowing Soap was  _completely_  right.

"Y’ know I'm right, Cap'n," Soap shrugged.

" _Yeah_ …" Price nodded, fixing the hat that sat on his head. "As if I'd admit i' though."

Soap let out a breath, raising a brow at the silence.   
Their team was isolated, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow, ice, and danger. It wasn't a silence of  _comfort_ , either. It was the wilderness' orchestra, playing like violins in a horror movie, waiting for the sudden terror to come crashing down like wave of a crescendo.  
He could feel himself shivering again, which was embarrassing. He came across as this strong, capable man, yet here he was, unable to keep even  _himself_  warm. He bet Price wasn't  _amused_ like he claimed to be, only humoured by his soldier's pathetic inabilities.   
             Awkwardly, he scratched at the side of his face, closing his eyes in attempt to eliminate the discomfort between them. Soap didn't understand  _why_  he felt uncomfortable. After all, he and Price were very  _close_. They'd been through hell together; they'd seen almost everything the world had to offer. Although now that he'd thought about it, he hadn't seen all Price  _himself_  had to offer.   
           Nor had Price seen everything Soap had to offer.  
Good friends had their limits though,  _right_? Grunting, Soap clung to the thin, cotton blanket that lay shrivelled beside him, and hugged it close for warmth.

"You cold?" The older voice once again spoke out.

Soap rolled his eyes.  _Hadn't they just had this conversation?_  "Christ Price, your age is gettin' the better of y'," he smirked teasingly.

Price scowled. "How so?" He clearly didn't get the joke, which was unusual.

Raising a brow, Soap bit his lower lip. In fact, during the past few weeks, Price had become seemingly  _short_  with him. Yes, they still had their banter, and their cocky teasing sessions, however lately, Price seemed rather vacant when it came to come backs.   
      Whenever Soap turned to give his Captain some sort of grin, wink or even a general glance to check for a reaction of some kind, Price would turn heads suspiciously swiftly. As though he didn't want to see Soap, or speak to him. They kept having awkward silences, and Soap often found his Captain  _staring_  at him, lost in thought. The younger soldier threw a glance at his Captain, eyeing him. Just as expected, the older man was staring at him, like a mother over her child's crib; his eyes full of solemn and frustration. "We li’erally had the  _cold_ conversation about  _five minutes ago…_ " He answered bitterly.

"Ah, right, sorry. My uh, my mind's elsewhere at the moment, mate."

That was it?  _That was it?_  No scolding for being cocky? No  _'cheeky bastard'_ , or  _'I'm not old'?_   **Huh**.

Soap blinked, pushing himself up, leaning on one arm as he glanced about the tent. It was clean, cleaner than expected, what with having a group of four men living in such a tight space. "Are you alright, Price?"

In silence, Price merely nodded as he eyed the other’s face.

Soap, unconvinced, rolled his eyes again before turning his attention to the bleeping phone beside him.

Price bit his left inner cheek. His eyes drifted from Soap's face, down to his shoulders, allowing his gaze to fall to the man's arm that he leant on. Really, Price was always fascinated by Soap's muscles; e _specially_ his  _arms._  
 _'He must've worked_ ** _hard_** _for those…'_  The way they were  _shaped..._ He remembered their first meeting, when Soap had removed his shirt before entering the shower.  _His abs… his arms… his shoulders…his_ _neck…_ _  
_Perhaps it was the mountain’s merciless solitude, or that he spent so much time with _men._  There was always  _something_  about Soap, from their first meeting, to the progress the younger made just to impress and assist his superior, to  ** _now_** _._    
    Price had never met anyone who could sport a mohawk so  _well_. In fact, it actually looked  _good_  on him. It made him look even  _better_ , if he was being honest. Shaking his head, Price rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath, trying to eliminate all the thoughts that shat on his aching brain. He realized he was still staring, but Soap was too focussed on the phone for him to notice, fortunately. "Something wrong?" He inquired, trying to nudge past the silence.

"Nah, it's just buggin' out," he replied sharply, his eyebrows furrowed.  _It was like smiling made you colder._

"It's probably the cold," Price stated.

"No shite. It ruins  _everythin’._  When are we goin' tae move out? I'm freezin' m' bloody tits off sittin' here…"

Price allowed his lips to curve upwards into a smirk. "What did I say about complaining?"

Soap turned his head, acknowledging the comment, before exhaling heavily. "Right, right, sorry." Price was right, he was letting his irritability get the better of him. "Let’s be honest though, there's no’  _much_  t' be  _positive_  about, is there?"

"Eh, at least try and find something…"

"Like what?"

"I don't bloody know. I've given you a suggestion, now shut it and find something…" Price said.

Anyone else who didn't know Price all that well would've been offended, but not Soap. No, in fact, Soap knew he was playing. Price had a specific tone when being serious, and his current one was nowhere near as uptight. He knew from the gentle ripple in his words. "Relax, old man, wouldn't want you tae wear yourself out," he hummed.

Price paused, grunting a chuckle before falling silent again.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Soap gave up on communication and turned his back to the older man, hoping to get some rest. Maybe  **sleep**  would  **numb**  this  _damned cold!_  
Shifting around a few times, he adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, cerulean eyes flittering shut as he tried to relax so that sleep could borrow him. He gave an irritated growl with each shiver his body gave. He  _knew_ he was cold; his body didn't need to  _remind_ him! Movement could soon be heard beside him, but he was too tired to look for the source, so he just ignored it.   
Slowly, his muscles began to ease, until he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his waist, causing him to almost shoot into the air. The only thing keeping him from doing so was said arms holding him close and  _tightly_ , so that he was unable to escape. " _Wha’_  in-"

"Calm yourself, lad!" Price's husky voice could be  _felt_  beside his ear, and the desire to melt there and then made him nervous.

Soap frowned to himself, before freezing up again.   
W _hat the fuck was he_ _doing_ _?_  
" _P-Price_ _! This is – nae – what are you doin’?” He_  wriggled in attempt to gain freedom. Not that he didn't  _like_  the hold his Captain had on him, but the surprise was overwhelming. Wait. He liked it? No, forget it, it’s just the cold. Blame it on the cold.

" _Shh_ ," Price hushed, nuzzling his face into Soap's neck. He’d given into whatever need he felt pulling in his chest. Seeing Soap  _trembling_  the way he was – it was like watching a puppy suffering. He had to do something, but to the point where he had latched onto one of his men to keep them warm?  _Right_. Seemed legitimate. He was certain his loneliness was linked in with that somewhere, not to mention the unbelievable  _frustration_  he felt whenever he  _looked_  at Soap. Why? That he didn’t know. Who understands feelings these days? "I'm keeping us warm you muppet, what did you think I was doing?"

Soap flinched at the hush, going still as he craned his neck in attempt to look at the other's expression. “ **Oh**  – uh – nothin’. I jus’… wasn’t bloody expectin’ it.” There was a pause as he tried to calm himself, holding back a shudder as Price’s bristly beard grazed the nape of his neck. “I know ah’m irresistible an’ all but I’m no’ use’tae gettin’  _grabbed_  for it,” he jested, doing his best to lighten the situation.

“I’ll fuck off if that’s wha’ you want, Soap. Leave you to shiver –”

He regretted the joke immediately, finding himself freezing up again. “N-no,” he choked. “No, this is –  _thanks_  Price. I appreciate it.”

 

Price took his chance, hoping his ‘good intentions’ would cover any suspicions Soap had. Subconsciously, he inhaled, breathing in Soap’s scent and he had to make sure not to do that again because  _wow_  that was weird of him. The lad didn’t seem to mind though, which eased him somewhat. He could feel the other squirm against him, letting out a heavy exhale causing the older man to feel vaguely successful? Whatever he was hoping to achieve, he  _had_. “Don’t get  _soppy_  mate, I’m just cold,” he grumbled into the other’s ear before closing his eyes. There was a peaceful smirk on his face as he started to drift into a deep sleep, finally warmer. Because  _that_  had been the issue.


	3. Memory Two

“It’s good tae have you back, sir,” Soap stated.

“It’s good to _be_ back, mate,” Price replied, though his response didn’t sound all that genuine. They’d returned to one of the many impro-bases General Shepherd had, Price seating himself on the couch occupying one of the less busy sectors.

Soap stood at a distance, observing the other. Hours had past since he returned the pistol, and yet it still didn’t seem _real_ to him. He hadn’t seen Price in over _five_ years. Hell, he thought Price had been dead. Poof, _gone_ , out of his life just like that. It had been tough, surviving without the others. Everyone that he had known had been stolen from him, rug ripped from beneath even the sturdiest of footing and he must’ve bashed his head on the way down because it was starting to _pound_.

During their short time together, Soap had started to see Price as a father figure. One could say he had _daddy issues_ , but this was no reckless kink like many stigmatised it to be.   
Soap was a bastard, in more ways than one – _Price would say_. MacTavish was the surname of his mother, who had given birth to him before marriage. His father was a _menace_ , to say the least. Scottish alcoholic and a verbally abusive man, perhaps there were deep meanings behind why he _was_ the way he was, but Soap had never pushed to care.   
              His mother loved him dearly, he’d grown up as a mother’s boy and felt no shame in showing this. She did _everything_ she could for him, but the one thing she couldn’t achieve was ridding him of his father. The asshole would _nit-pick_ on every little thing about Soap. He would tell him he was talentless, useless like his mother and that he was _never_ good enough.   
People used to tell him “ _he’s evil_ , _why does it matter what he thinks_?” But the truth was, no matter how cruel the man was, in a sick and twisted way he was still his dad. At the end of the day, we all want our parent’s approval and Soap was _desperate_ to do something that would make his dad proud of him. Believed that there was _some way_ , whatever it may be, that he could get his dad to love him. He simply wasn’t good enough, and that’s why he didn’t. So, he _bettered_ himself. He worked hard, disciplined himself with his school work and art but his dad always shut him down or tore work up before throwing it in Soap’s face. That’s when he tried something new.   
  
Maybe his dad hated him _because_ he wasn’t like him?   
It was around this time, at about the age of fifteen, that he decided to shave his head, mohawk thicker than the Trossachs and he started to misbehave in school. He would distract other students and get sent out, he would be _rude_ and, as the teachers described him, _a bloody devil_. The misbehaviour was more of a cry for help, but of course no one ever listened, and he only ended up feeling _lonelier_.

His mother expressed her disappointment that his personality was becoming like his dad’s and in a desperate attempt to better himself, he worked on being _nicer_ to others. He used his mum as a role model, but somehow, he always ended up _more_ like his dad. A constant bleed of irritability was the _first_ sign. Boy with a heart of gold but his father had _pissed_ all over it.   
Were it not for his later-discovered desire to join the military, he could’ve followed the man _further_ down the steep, steep hill. Since he came of age, he found himself developing crushes on older men. He would hang out in bars, get drunk and start fights with older drunks. Something about trying to expel his hatred towards his father by fighting those _like_ him but it never helped. He always ended up with a black eye and a wounded pride.   
  
Joining the military made his mother unbelievably proud of him and he used _that_ to keep going. Soon, he found that he was _actually_ good at what he did, those around him always praising him. He even earned himself the nickname Soap. And though he never truly got his dad’s approval or validation, he found receiving it from his superiors was _enough_ , which is why he idolised Price as much as he did.

Price was the father he never had. It became an _obsession_ , of sorts. Every compliment Price passed his way Soap would _obsess_ over. He’d break it down and overthink it for days, sometimes even _weeks_. To the point where, unknowingly, it developed into infatuation. He was so grateful for Price. Couldn’t believe that God had blessed him with exactly what he’d been longing for all these years. He started sketching Price, a lot more than anyone else.   
          When Price had ‘died’, Soap’s identity collapsed. His inspiration had gone but the obsession remained. He’d taken time off and had visited Hereford as well as the horse races that Price had talked about. He’d bought Villa Clara’s, Price’s favourite cigar and started smoking them _religiously_ – the smell making him feel as though Price was there with him.   
He also kept the pistol Price had given him at his hip, cleaning it, dissembling it. It was a _distraction_ , motivation to get back in the fight. Finding Price again in the Gulag had given him strange sensations. Ones he still didn’t understand. He was overjoyed to see him again, of course he was, but he was unsettled just as much. Mainly because now, he had to _face_ the feelings. No more avoiding them. And how the hell was he supposed to explain the **obsessions**?

“Not gunna stand and stare all day, are you?” Price inquired, lifting his gaze to the distant Scot.

Soap blinked, having trouble finding his words.

Price only snorted, patting the seat beside him. “Sit your arse down, lad.”

Nodding, Soap approached him and sat down, leaning back into the comfort. It was nice to rest, but the younger was not the same Scot Price used to know. He’d grow as a person, _a lot_. It had been five bloody years for Christ’s sake, and yet he still found himself stuttering like your typical FNG. ‘ _You’re not a pussy anymore_ , _mate_ ,’ he inwardly told himself. “Some bloody ‘oliday you took, eh?” He smirked. _Good_. Establish where you stand.

He was hoping for a laugh. Playful banter of some kind or even to be shut down by Price’s dry humour but all he got was silence. He could’ve sworn that the quiet was more frightening than the explosions and gunshots. “Price?” He was concerned, to say the least. This wasn’t the Price he remembered.

The older man raised his head, looking from the floor over to Soap. He seemed somewhat vacant, and for a moment, Soap could’ve sworn he saw _emotion_ there. A sadness that clutched at him tightly, weighing down on his chest and he wanted to reach out. He was being _insensitive_ , forgetting the amount of shit Price had probably faced in the Gulag and – “Shite Price ah’m – I didn’t – that was bloody insensitive.”

“It’s alright,” Price shook his head, smiling weakly. The bags under his eyes emphasised just how _traumatic_ the past five years had been for the man. He looked like he hadn’t slept for the entirety of it.

“You – you wanna talk?” Soap asked, frowning gently. He felt bad for Price. Not pity, he knew the Captain wouldn’t appreciate that, but he just felt bad that he couldn’t do anything. He felt bad that Price was suffering, and he wanted to take it all away. Suffer _himself_ , if necessary. “We can go tae my room uf you’d like? I can tell th’ boys t’ bugger off for a bit? Give you some privacy?”

“Soap –” Price interrupted. “Thanks, but I think I’m alright here. I just – I’m not feelin’ much like myself is all. Being back ‘ere I’m – I feel kind of … the odd one out, y’ know?”

Soap’s brows rose. _The odd one out_? Price was always the odd one _in_. Everyone _loved_ him. Well, most, anyway – those that had survived the journeys they shared with him. “That’s _okay_! We just need t’ get you back in routine, old man!”

“ _Old_?” Price returned.

“It’s alright, Price, there’s no _shame_ in it!”

“Cheeky bastard,” Price grumbled.

Soap felt something ignite within him. It was like getting a response from your favourite celebrity, or in Soap’s case, hero. “There he is!” He exclaimed. “Thought I’d ‘ave tae send out _another_ bloody search an’ rescue party.”

Price scoffed. “’ang on a minute. I’m looking for a shy Scot, don’t suppose you’ve seen ‘im have you?”

Ah, _shy_. Something he’s not been for some time. Perhaps, Price’s absence sparked something in him. He’d lost _his_ fatherly presence, but he found later in life people like Roach _required_ one, and so he’d slipped into the role – distracted himself with it. If he couldn’t have Price, he’d become Price – that kind of thing. “Learnt t’ grab life by th’ _balls_ ,” Soap said, proudly. He prayed for Price to _approve_. “Tha’ an’ I didn’t have _you_ around t’ keep me _in check_.”

“You’ve done bloody _well_ , I won’t lie,” Price admitted. “Thought I’d ‘ave people needing me to return but everyone seems to be doing just fine.”

Soap’s growing grin faltered, brows knitting together. “Wha’ are you talkin’ about Price?” He gawped. To some degree, he felt _offended_. He’d felt so fucking _dreadful_ after Price disappeared. How **dare** the man assume things had been so _easy_.

The older man seemed surprised by Soap’s reaction. “I mean everything’s changed since I’ve been gone. I dunno. I guess – it’s like some sort of out of body experience. I’ve been away, dead to some, and yet the world just went on…”

Troubled, Soap found himself becoming irritable. “Well that’s damn selfish thinkin’. There’a some people who _always_ had you in their thoughts!”

Price raised a brow, sceptical. “ _Who_?”

Soap almost choked. Why had he said _that_? Of _all_ the things to say! He didn’t know _who_. He was certain some people thought of him now and then, but _he_ was the only one who _obsessed_ over it. He was the only one who thought of him every day. Who prayed for him to return, for him to watch over Soap and to give him strength.   
Oh, he’d just dug himself a bloody grave. There was no way he could name random people either, fake or real, in case Price went to ask them himself. Then that’d make Soap look even worse, not that he looked bad right now but to himself he did. Realising he hadn’t spoken for at least a minute, Soap clenched his jaw. He couldn’t tell Price about it – about any of it. It was too embarrassing. Price would never let him live it down, but if he were to change the subject or up and leave Price would assume Soap agreed, which he most certainly did not. What a predicament. “You really think tha’ lowly of yourself?”

“Let’s not talk about that,” Price warned. Five years in the Gulag did shit to a man, not that he’d ever admit such out loud.

“Why not?” Soap insisted, scowling now. “You expectin’ me tae skip off like a doaty grass an’ tell e’ryone tha’ you actually _do_ have feelings?”

Price’s tone was _sharp_ , scolding – “ **Soap** ,” his name a final warning. _Stop pushing your luck_ , _highland boy_.

Immediately, Soap realized he was at fault, crossing the line and he falls silent, frowning again. “Sorry,” he utters, pausing before continuing, voice low. “It’s just – It’s been _tough_ without you, Price.” That’s as far as he’d go.

Silence followed, minutes of it but it felt _endless_. Finally, he just had to say something. Let it be known. “You can talk t’ me Price. You don’t –”

“Soap, I –”

“Let me _finish_ ,” The younger pressed, cutting Price off. “You don’t _have_ tae, I don’t expect it fr’m you an’ there’s certainly no _obligations_ , but I just want you tae know tha’ I will bloody _listen_ uf you’ve got something on your mind. I know you’ve been through some _shite_ Price, but you’re no’ as alone as you _think_ you are.” He exhaled after, relieved that he’d at least gotten that into the open. There’s a long pause, Price’s gaze averting but Soap noticed the way his brows lowered under the shadow of his beloved boonie hat.

“Shepherd’s got shit for us to do,” Price said, rising from his seat. For a moment, Soap thought he’d been completely ignored and then brushed off, azure hues wide, watching Price’s every move, desperate for something else. _Anything_ else. He met Price’s gaze and received a weak smile, but it was so rich with meaning that Soap could feel his heart skip a beat, sweat threatening to bead at his neck. Price was so important to him. Then, Price sealed the deal with a pat on the other’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Soap,” he offered, and it was enough.  
  
      Soap returned the smile, feeling bizarrely fuzzy on the inside as he accepted the hand Price held out to him and was helped to his feet. He laughed, “thought I was supposed tae be th’ one helpin’ _you_ up, old man.”

_You’ve helped enough_ , he wanted to say. It was time for Price to return the favour. Instead, he exhaled a breathy chuckle and shook his head. “Soap two point oh, a little _bugger_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the concept of Soap and his daddy issues, and I'm not talking the stigmatized fetish crap, I mean that's a part of it but I just like it linking back to his father and seeking out that kind of affection from the older men around him.


	4. Memory Three - Part 1 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that in this story, Ghost and Roach survived Shepherd.  
> Longer chapter this time, part one of three.

 

Sapphire hues were drained of their usual brightness, curious glint combined with royal blue flecks visible in the light as they glanced around for his white towel. Tired eyes, sleepless nights undeniably the cause but it wasn't something he could help. Sometimes the nights were just rough. "Aha! There you are y' bugger!" Soap piped, yanking it from its place atop the open door, undoubtedly placed there by Price. His Captain  _hated_  dirty items being on the floor. The man enjoyed clean surroundings which, in all honesty, wasn't a bad thing. Soap didn't mind it, that was for sure, nor did he think that he  _should_. Who said being clean was a bad thing? Ironically coming from the man nicknamed  _Soap_.

Feeling the towel in bandaged hands, he turned and exited the room. En route to the shower, he greeted Roach and Ghost who were apparently "just coming to check on him". He knows they said it out of pure courtesy, but still, it's nice to be acknowledged. Since he'd gained his injuries he'd felt useless and forgotten. Price checked on him regularly, which was nice, but he always felt guilty when his Captain did.  _Oh look_ ,  _Soap's doing fuck all again_. Ghost always tried to reassure him that he deserved the rest, but Soap couldn't accept that. He couldn't even work out properly which is what he did when he was bored or looking to mope around. If he didn't exercise, then he ate, and without combining the two it'd become ugly very quickly.  
The guilt became so much that he insisted on staying at their base, training the Russian loyalist FNGs, seeing as Shepherd had stuck the  _outcast_  label on their foreheads.  _If I can't do bugger all physically at least let me instruct th' new guys_ , he'd insisted.

"How are those pretty hands doin'?" Ghost asked, pointing at the bandaged limbs.

"Fuckin' sore, like always," Soap replied.

"Yeah but they'll heal," Roach reassured. "And then you'll be good as new!"

"Thanks, Roach.  _I wasn't aware'a tha'_ ," Soap said dryly.

**_Someone_** _woke up on the wrong side of the bed_ , Roach thought.

Come to think of it, Roach and Ghost hung around each other a lot lately. Or was that just him? Were they in some sort of bloody  _gang_? The  _wanker_  squad, no doubt. Maybe they had some pact since General Shepherd. Bros for life or something stupid. Even to himself, he was noticeably irritable today.  _More than usual_. The lack of sleep combined with the boredom, guilt and restlessness? It was justifiable, really.

"Cough i' up then. What's got you so  _pissy_?" Ghost jabbed.

"You know  _sometimes_  I just wish you'd keep your  **bloody**  mask on an' never  _speak_ …"

"Damn Soap, I'm just lookin' out for you mate. No need to be such a bitch," Ghost growled, Roach retiring to the background, already overly offended.

Around them, Russian loyalists passed by, busy as ever and it was like they were purposely taunting the Captain.  _Look at me_ ,  _I can still do this_ ,  _I still have full fuckin' function in both hands!_  Truly, he should be grateful there wasn't any serious nerve damage. Still, inactive, he couldn't be satisfied.  
"Sorry. Ah'm just … tired. Ya know how tha' goes."

" _Mm_ ," Ghost gave a hum. "Well, go 'ave your shower. 'opefully it'll make you feel be'er, for  _our_  sake."

" _Aye_ …" Waving a bandaged hand, Soap moved further down the corridor. He looked down at both hands, frowning.

It had been about three weeks since the incident. And what a  _fucked up_  incident it had been. Soap had strayed from his team, attempting to flank but was caught out – sleeping on the job. Not literally, Soap would never lower himself to such, but he'd been led into an ambush and he'd followed, damn  _absent minded_. Stupid is what it was. He's sure to never make that mistake again.  
Soap wasn't typically cocky, but merely  _unrealistic_  about just how much he could handle. He didn't boast about it, he just didn't admit when enough was enough.  
Better yourself – the state of mind always dared him to push through challenges. Like Price and how he saw emotion as weakness, Soap saw acknowledging weakness  _as_  a weakness. If you didn't acknowledge them, then there  _weren't_  any to begin with. If that makes sense? If not, good, because it's a bloody stupid state of mind that he's been scolded for before.  
Following the ambush, Soap was abducted by an enemy team and taken away for interrogation in a nearby abandoned building. Interrogation being merciless torture.

* * *

He'd woken, restrained in a way that he couldn't immediately identify due to the black sack weighing down over his head. He was seated, hands resting upon a surface in front of him. The sound of gunfire in the distance was  _muffled_ , meaning he was either close to where he'd been and the building walls were thick, or he was several miles away. The sound could also be carried by surrounding buildings or trees, causing them to sound closer than they  _were_.  
The scent of blood was what clogged his nose first. A heavy, festering pungency that hit like a  _brick_ , meaning there had to be a fucking lot of it. Maybe it was an interrogation ploy, to get his adrenaline pumping. He could also smell the stale scent of sweat that seemed capable of staining and tainting the walls of a room if there long enough. Breathing could be heard a distance away, possibly from a corner, undeniably through an open mouth, teeth  _clenched_  and bared. There was only one man in the room, as far as he could tell, unless others were remaining  _silent_. Still, the air would be stuffier and hotter if there were any more people – though that depended on the size of the room.

Soon enough, his questions were answered when the sack was pulled roughly from his head, causing his neck to arch back to keep it from being  _wrenched_. While his eyes adjusted to the lighting, which was surprisingly dim, footsteps boomed closer and there was suddenly a face inches from his own. His hands tried to rise as defence but there was a metallic clinking sound and he could barely lift them. They rested upon a wooden table, secured by  _handcuffs_. The man before him held no weapons, but a knife was secured at his calf, just as Soap's had been and should  _still_  be if – nope. Azure hues glanced down to find himself completely stripped of all but his clothes. Even his boots had been removed. His  _favourite_  bloody boots.

A hand gripped at his stubbled chin, craning his head so his eyes met with his captor. Did you ask for an  _angry_ ,  **ugly**  Russian? Well you got one anyway. Brown orbs streaked with insanity were blown wide as if he'd just inhaled a fresh line of coke. His breath was, ridiculously,  _worse_  than the blood. Either that, or blood was just something Soap was more desensitised to.  
Cigarette smoke was most noticeable, acrid and oppressive to his senses as it was sloshed with the unmistakable scent of vodka. Stereotypical? He doubted the Russian would  _care_. Cigarettes were discomforting and to Soap? Distasteful. He hated their scent. They were nothing like the smooth, rich scent of Villa Clara's, they didn't remind him of Price at all. If anything, they made him more aware that Price wasn't  _there_.

Spit spattered across his face and he grimaced, wanting to fight back simply because it resembled the motion of a dog snapping its jaws and the instinct to  _that_  was to snap its neck, but his hands were unusable.

"Who do you work for!?" The Russian snarled.

Name, rank, number, date of birth. That was the only information he could give away. He remained silent, maintaining eye contact with his captor – eyes  _forward_. This had been part of his training, selection for the SAS was more than just running a fucking course. To get in, you had to first be  _broken_.

Good cop, bad cop was not the routine this asshole was going for. Time was of the essence, clearly, seeing as he was  _full frontal_  aggressive. A slap to Soap's cheek turned his face to the left. Only then did he see the rest of the room. His previous observations had been cut short by Dimitri the  _dick_. The walls were smothered with blood, stone floor caked in it as though this was the house of an evil butcher who captured people in his spare time and chopped them up and then proceeded to hang their limbs with rope, perhaps  _throwing_  one over his shoulder for good luck every now and then. There was only one body in sight, right over in the far corner, one of a  _woman_. His jaw clenches at the sight, emotions already triggered and it's hard to look away. How had she died? By who's hand?

"American," the Russian sneered, noting the direction of Soap's gaze. " _Scum_. I slit belly and make her  _watch_."

Soap's teeth gritted together and it was difficult to keep from crying out – from that  _one_  comment. He knew it was undoubtedly true and that the innocent woman had suffered and –  _your emotions_ ,  _Soap_.  _They're a weakness when you expose 'em_. Price's words echoed within his head. If he got  _too_  emotional over that one thing, the Russian would exploit it. Christ, he might even drag the body over for first class viewing. His throat burned at the thought and he inhaled, refreshing his mind for a moment, grounding himself.

A fist slammed down on the table in front of him. "What is your  _name_?"

"Soap," the Scot spat back.

" _Soap_ ," the Russian laughed, repeating it again mockingly. "Like  _cleansing_ , no? Maybe you clean this,  _huh_?" A hand gripped at his chin again, tighter this time, directing Soap's gaze back to the bloodied floor. "Maybe I make you clean with  _tongue_. Would you  _like_  this?"

His eyes stung as he blocked out the concept, even Soap's hardened stomach threatened to jump. His fists clenched, handcuffs trying to suffocate and strangle his wrists, a faint blue colour already setting in. He was snapped back from his thoughts when a knife was slammed down beside his hand. Inwardly, he cursed, scowling up at the Russian who drooled inhumanly. Watch out, it looks like there's more than just the bloody  _dogs_  with rabies.

"You are  _Captain_ ," the Russian stated, clutching Soap's dog tags in his grip. Panic soaked his gut. Those were  _his_! "Captain has value." The knife was pulled from the table, blunt side dragged, slowly, torturously across MacTavish's hand. The Russian was wrong, however. Speaking as though the Captain could be used to barter  _more_  from the enemy than any  _Sergeant_. But in the eyes of the SAS, they were all  _equal_. No man left behind,  _whatever_  their rank. "For Captain, you are pathetic," the other insulted. "You're like scared little bunny rabbit."

Soap had to hold back an eye roll. "An' ah've met dogs with better manners than you. Didn't your mum ever teach you not tae bloody  _drool_?"

The Russian hissed angrily, lifting the sharp blade that had been caressing Soap's hand as if a friend. It was no longer a friend. A loud cry of pain burst from Soap's lips as the blade pierced his left hand, going straight through flesh and bone and hitting the table with a thud, possibly even splintering through the other side. " _Fuuuuuuuuuuckkk!_ " Soap roared. " _C'mon y' bastard! Is that all you've got!? Fuckin' pussy!_ "

The knife was removed, and Soap winced, hoping it was finished; but it was  _far_  from  _over._  Again, the Russian slammed the knife into Soap's left hand, before pulling it out a second time, several more stabs following that. Each one was drawn out slowly, stab, twist, hold, remove, repeat.  
There was no way his cries could be  _withheld_  at this point. Agony spiked up his left arm and his hand felt as though it'd just gone through a meat grinder. He didn't dare try and move it, remaining frozen as his arms spasmed, naturally attempting to get  _away_  from the weapon, however, the handcuffs kept him restrained. With every spasm his hand had, he could feel the exposed flesh at the palm of his hand sticking to the wooden surface. Tears forced their way from watering eyes, his body's response to the trauma, dripping down structured facial features.

The only sounds that could be heard now were the soft, agonised whimpers that left the Captain, along with his ragged breaths. "Shite… oh  _fucking_  shite,  _fuck_ ,  **fuck**!" His left hand was covered in blood.  _His_  blood. He couldn't even see the stab marks because of the blood pooling from them. His vision was blurry and had started to whiten, the threat of passing out looming.

"Are you going to  _comply_?" The Russian leered, his accent thick and mocking.

Stubborn as a mule, Soap met the other's eye and bared his teeth. Comply with the enemy, show weakness and let them believe they are in control. But Soap wouldn't go down without a fight. Not after  _that_. " **Fuck**  you, y' nancy  _wanker_!"

He ignored the stream of angry, Russian curses that left the enemy. A punch was thrown at his face, causing his head to loll backwards as consciousness threatened to abandon him. Then, that previous, blistering pain returned. The dreaded knife was back, this time planted into his right hand. The process began again, stab after stab, scream after scream… and he felt weak. So weak so suddenly it was frightening but passing out was the least of his concerns. If anything, he  _welcomed_  it. His vision darkened and he was certain he'd been sucked into the darkness, if only for a moment, before being yanked back out by the twisting of the blade. A thick mist started to settle in, vertigo seated upon his shoulder even though he wasn't moving.

Was it  _over_?

Of course not. His right eye throbbed and Christ, now he'd have a bloody black eye too? For  _fuck's_  sake!

"Who do you work for?" The Russian asked again, tone impatient. Soap wouldn't break. He  _refused_  to submit,  _spitting_  back at the other. That earned him a grip at the throat, however, no punches followed. He waited, peeking through his swelling eye to see the man's hand approaching his face. Two fingers protruded from a fist, dirty, grubby fingers which had been fuck knows where and they were  _forced_  down the Scot's throat.  
Within a moment, Soap began spluttering, coughing at the violation of his throat as the fingers retreated and acid  _rose up_ , chunky from his previous sandwich and straight out onto his already burning hands. Like lemon juice to a paper cut he went to scream but he only  _choked_ , a fit of coughing ceasing spare breath from his lungs as he gasped and wretched. Vomit coated trembling fingers, seeping into his newly acquired wounds and this was it. This was the  _worst_  thing he'd experienced, without a doubt. The pain was something he'd never experienced. The feeling of acidic slime dribbling down tender skin and his stomach jerking once more as he noticed the Russian walking away from him, the knife still buried in his hand, throat  _raw_.

The next sound he heard had his entire body tensing up, arse shifting to the back of the chair as he tried to rip free from the handcuffs, causing the pain to flare up once more. The gut-wrenching snarl of a chainsaw  _ripped_  through the room like dog teeth to a jugular and he finds himself screaming again, though his mind was silent. He'd drifted off into the place of  _peace_ , where nothing could touch him, a blanket of white stroking bloodied skin, crimson stains disappearing from the silk-like comfort the moment they appeared.

He would not beg, but the word  **no**  was howled repeatedly. With a powerful pull, the table shifted,  _heavier_  than he'd imagined but he  _managed_ , only to stumble backwards and land on his rear, the table falling on top of him so that he was pinned.  
The Russian was closing in when a  **bang**  grabbed his attention near the far corner. The door  _swung_  open and a flash bang was thrown in, landing near Soap's position. Swiftly, fuelled by only adrenaline, the Captain grabbed the explosive and threw it closer to his captor before covering his head. A flash engulfed the room, bright white, or perhaps it was his vision, and men's voices erupted through the door. A gunshot caused him to flinch and he became fully aware of the table now and how his hands were still  _attached_  to it, positioned bizarrely, but he was too shocked to notice the pain now, tears streaming down his cheeks subconsciously. Something hit the floor, a body most likely, before someone appeared beside him.

"C-c-ap-p-pri –" Soap  _barely_  managed to whisper.

"Soap!" Price bellowed, placing a knee behind the younger's back so his weight was  _supported_  and not pulling on the handcuffs. The knife was cautiously removed, unlike the other  _nine_  times, or was it ten? Sweat dripped down the Scot's face, right eye swollen and starting to show bruising. Thick vomit coated his camo vest, dripping down angled arms and into his lap. He couldn't tell his own blood from the blood that had been there before him now and he could feel his body trembling  _violently_  against his Captain. This was all Soap's fault. He'd brought this on  _himself_. "I'm here, Soap. Stay with me lad, I've got you. You're  _safe_  now. Bloody hell. Ghost, cut these damn cuffs,  _quickly_!"

And that was  _all_  he needed.  _Safe_  – that one word of reassurance and he could  _finally_  slip into the silk, uttering sharply as he drifted off into blissful peace.

* * *

For the next fifteen minutes, Soap found himself drifting in and out of consciousness. Someone had his legs, gripping tightly at his ankles whilst someone else had his shoulders. His arms had been placed on his chest, his dirty vest having been removed. Pain wracked his entire body and the jarring he experienced from his carriers' jogging  _didn't_  help. He tried to utter some form of English but it only left in a weak groan before he faded again. The person at his shoulders was talking to him, trying to address him, communicate but he couldn't reciprocate.  
Soap lay limp, body still shaking, undoubtedly from the amount of blood he'd lost. It felt like his body had been tossed into freezing water, pulled out and then plonked into scorching and  _repeated_. Nothing was stable, everything was disorientated and his body was on overdrive, attempting to keep up.

He was lifted upwards, hands now grasping at his waist as he was undoubtedly being manoeuvred – probably into something. He suddenly couldn't hear, deafened by whirring but a hand clenched his shoulder and rubbed – reassuring, safe. Something about the presence was soothing, even after the trauma he'd experienced. Then, he was out again.

* * *

"Cut 'im loose!" Price yelled, waving Ghost over. In moments, the cuffs were broken open and removed from marked wrists. Meanwhile, Price cut the Scot's vest open, discarding it to the side because it had been ruined. Roach watched at the door for enemies and once Soap's hands were freed, Price tugged the limp body away from the mess and helped the unconscious lad to his feet – supporting him entirely, one arm across his shoulders.  
Ghost assisted, taking the other side's weight. Price stopped, however, at the sight of something glinting on the floor. Scowling, he warned Ghost to support Soap's full weight for a moment while he squatted and lifted the item up, shoving it into his breast pocket. Then he continued assisting Ghost, leading Soap towards the exit while Roach took point.

"Nikolai, we've been compromised an' Soap's in bloody  _bad_  condition, LZ two, I repeat, LZ two," closer than LZ one at their current position and he knew Soap didn't have time to waste.

"On the way, my friend. Will first aid kit be substantial for now? I do not have anything more," Nikolai returned over the radio.

"He's going to need some damn good medical assistance," Price stated. If it were only one wound, his concern would be moderately  _less_  but seeing that there were two  _gaping_  holes in the younger's hands and had already been exposed to an unbelievable lack of hygiene, he was at  _serious_  risk. Thinking a mere bandage would do the trick was careless. If blood loss didn't get him, septicaemia  _would_.

They arrived at the LZ just as Nikolai's helicopter came into view. He touched down and Roach clambered in first, taking Soap's ankles from Ghost, helping him in feet first while Ghost took to supporting the spine. Once Soap was fully in, laying on a row of seats, Price climbed in and occupied half of one beside the Scot, leaving Ghost to sit beside Roach. Price then took Soap and sat him up, knowing that laying the way he  _was_  after vomiting wasn't the best idea. An arm was wrapped around his shoulder, keeping him close as he squeezed at one to  _reassure_  the younger. "We're gunna get you outta here, Soap, you'll be  _okay_  mate."

Ghost, hidden behind his mask and sunglasses, watched Price's actions. It was surprising, just how  _concerned_  the old man was, not to mention  _protective_. He wouldn't allow Ghost or Roach to sit with the Scot, and although he didn't  _ask_ , he could tell by the look in Price's eyes that silence between them was the only acceptable thing right now. Frantic, he kept shouting to Nikolai to " _fly faster_ ," to which Nikolai would respond by murmuring in Russian because honestly, everyone to  _some_  degree  _feared_  Price. They had reason to. The man was a living legend, yet so little was known about him as a person.

"Ghost, grab me the med kit!" Price ordered. It was odd to hear someone speaking after the minutes of quiet, but Ghost did as he was asked, reaching up for the secured kit. It opened with a click and he showed the contents to Price. "Just the  _bandages_  for now," Price's free hand reached out for one, which Ghost shoved into his grip. Then, the Captain began bandaging one of Soap's hands, making sure to avoid pulling it  _too_  tight but tight enough so that friction wouldn't occur. The thought of having something rubbing against  _exposed_  flesh made him cringe, pausing for a moment before powering through. Once the first hand was wrapped, he reached out for another bandage and started on the second. He knew it wouldn't do much, but Soap was currently bleeding all over both himself and the older man and he knew some pressure needed to be applied.

"I have safe place in sight," Nikolai notified, pulling towards where a medical centre had been set up, kind of like a make shift living space for many people, resembling an abandoned school.

"We've got to get 'im in there," Price said, brows furrowed, concern etched into his tired face.

The moment Nikolai's helicopter touched down, Price was on his feet, lifting all of Soap's weight with a grunt as he stumbled from the aircraft. Roach assisted him this time, while Ghost raced on ahead to warn the medics of the new arrival.

"You're gunna be alright lad, just  _hang on_ ," the older Captain whispered into Soap's ear, though it was hoarser than intended due to balancing half of the other's weight on his back. Soap was no  _feather_ , he wasn't overweight and there was no fat in sight on the man's body, or at least from what  _Price_  had seen, but his muscles were  _incredible_  and of course that's going to make him several times what he'd weigh  _without_  them. Price found himself imaging younger Soap, a little boy with his rough Scottish brogue. He didn't doubt Soap was probably a little  _bugger_  as a kid, always assumed he was a heart throb to the ladies too.

When Price emerged from his thoughts, he found himself leading Soap to an operation room. The hands would need stitching no doubt and a thorough cleansing. A pit in his gut swelled with guilt. Soap had just been through some unbearable shit, he wondered if the other had given away any information. He wouldn't  _blame_  him if he had, but it was probably not the best idea to think about that right now.

The doctors had stated that they couldn't operate on him while he was the way he was, so Price snatched a pair of scissors from the operating table and snipped down the younger's shirt, pulling the vomit soaked material from Soap's form and tossing it over to Ghost who  _shrieked_ , clearly disgusted as he lobbed it into the nearest bin.  
The fantastic canvas that was Soap's upper body caught Price's eye and he had to keep himself from  _staring_  in front of the others. He helped them get Soap onto the bed, sapphire gaze scanning broad shoulders and abs that put him in a significant state of awe. He despised the feeling that brewed within him, trying hard to avert his eyes in a different direction as he positioned Soap carefully so the doctors could get to his hands. Once the Scot looked like he wouldn't  _roll_  off and onto the floor, Price gave the doctors a nod. " _Save_  him," he muttered, expression  _threatening_  before he turned and exited the room. The idea of leaving Soap  _alone_  in there with those doctors… He hated it. Price, personally, wasn't a fan of health care. Doctors and their  _persistent_  questioning, especially when you really  _were_  going through the wars, it drove you up the wall.

Nikolai appeared shortly after, leading Price to a seating area. Price began pacing and the Russian shook his head. "Price, you must  _sit_. Rest, if possible. He will be in there for some time."

"You think I can bloody  _sleep_  after seein' 'im like  _tha_ '?" Price bit back. He was stubborn, something he shared with the Scot. It's probably why they got along so well. Price could relate to the reckless side of the other, could see parts of his younger self in Soap's own personality. And if he could, he wanted to coach him  _far away from it_.

Nikolai would've offered to get the other coffee, but with the mood Price was in right now he knew he solely wanted him to just go to sleep. Keep him calm and quiet for at least a few hours, maybe even just one. Price wasn't a talker in this kind of mood, but he could become verbally aggressive with others. Nasty, spitting venom out of pure frustration. He never truly  _meant_  the words he said, or so Nikolai told himself so he could sleep at night, but it's like the filter in his head goes on vacation and everything just  _flows_  out like poisoned water.

Surprisingly, an hour had passed and Price hadn't  _spoken_. He'd drifted into a trance-like state, held captive by his own thoughts. He blinked, lifting his gaze from the floor and onto himself, only now realising that he was covered in Soap's blood. Brows knitted together and his lips tightened. "They got a  _shower_  here?"

"Let me go and find out," Nikolai replied, wasting no time in pushing himself up from the seat. He disappeared off down the corridor, leaving Price alone for a few minutes.

Unseen and unheard, the other's head lolled back and he exhaled heavily. "What a bloody  _shit_  show." His mind began to drift again, the images he'd seen of Soap's body, the curve that connected neck to shoulder, tracing the outlines of every muscles. His arms were spectacular and his fingers  _twitched_  subconsciously at the thought of them. The thought of how they would  _feel_ , sweat dropping down working biceps, abs straining…  
Price had stumbled across Soap before during a work-out, which was probably one of the best  _and_  worst things to happen. He'd been discreet, conversing with another but his eyes always  _drifted_ , just enough so that peripheral vision could observe every lift, every grunt, every  _expression_  his face pulled as Soap pushed himself to the  _limit_. The way quality back muscles contracted with each push-up, and how beads of sweat danced down an  _arched_  back, settling just above the Scot's  _perky_  bloody arse and he'd always considered Soap's response to Price  _approaching_  him, silently kneeling at his side before grazing his fingers across  _sticky_  skin, taunting…

Hands clenched to fists and his breathing became ragged as he pictured himself  _beneath_  Soap, the Scot working out above him, looking down with those  _ocean_  eyes that could make your heart skip a bit with their sincere softness but just as easily heating into something Price would give  _anything_  to see and –

"Price?" Nikolai called from the doorway. He'd apparently called his name  _several_  times.

Price's eyes shot wide, catching his breath as he glanced around the room. It felt as though he'd been woken from a dream, but he couldn't remember dozing off. Clearing his throat, he looked to Nikolai, dazed.

"Are you  _alright_ , Price?"

" _Fine_ , Nikolai. What is it?"

"There  _are_  showers."

Brows rose softly. That was right, he'd asked Nikolai if there were any and he'd gone to look. Blinking, Price rose from the chair and cautiously made his way over to his friend. "Right. I think – just caught me off-guard is all.  _Sorry_  about that."

Nikolai gave a weak smile. "It is okay my friend, hopefully shower will make you feel better."

Price only nodded in return, his expression neutral. He looked at the other, expectant gaze.  _Where_ _ **are**_ _the showers_?

Lifting a finger, the Russian pointed down the corridor. "That way, then, take the left."

_Easy_  directions, good. He wasn't in the mood to go  _traipsing_  around. He knew, however, that were he talking to Soap, the Scot would say something along the lines of –  _try not tae get yourself lost_ ,  _old man_.

"Thanks," he muttered, parting ways with the Russian as he made his way down the long corridor, passing classrooms on the way which were occupied by injured men. He'd forgotten about others, Soap being his  _primary_  concern and his mind jumped back to his previous thoughts, sweat beading at his neck.  
What the bloody hell were they about?  
Well, he knew what they were  _about_ , that part was unmistakeable but why was he  _having_  them? Soap was – a  **friend**! Apparently  _not_ , or at least the title wasn't as innocent as it sounded. His expression creased up, the more he thought about it the more he felt his stomach churn and not in a  _bad_  way. It would seem even Price himself was prisoner to his emotions and feelings. It was ironic, seeing as he'd been the one who'd locked them  _away_.  
 _If you ignore them_ ,  _you don't learn them and their patterns_ , he remembered Soap had told him once. But Price didn't want to learn about his feelings, if anything, he preferred pretending he didn't possess  _any_. But now things were coming to light that Price wasn't aware of. His emotions had been plotting against him behind the cover of prison walls. They'd decided, now was the time – and he was caught in his own internal ambush.

Turning left, he continued until he came to a changing room.  _Figures_. He opened the door but the lights were off, causing a chill to spark up his spine. Flicking the light switch, Price entered the room, taking in the surroundings. Benches were attached to the wall, several lockers in the corner of the room and several tens of coat hangers were attached to the wall. He moved into the room more, noting that it was connected to another room – the  _showers_. They resembled cubicles, the door of one being pushed open to reveal a small shower. Overall, space was limited but it would do. He was used to much  _worse_.

Stripping off, Price placed his clothes over the door. Standing in his boxer briefs, he realized that he'd have to put the clothes back on, unless there was a clean change of clothes? And as if his mind had been  _read_ , he heard a door open followed by Nikolai's voice. "Price, I have found fresh clothes for you. Take what you need, there is also towel for you." The Russian paused, moving to place them on the nearby bench before turning to leave, jesting as he did. "The ladies here are  _very_  helpful."

Momentarily frozen at the  _intrusion_ , Price did find his lips curving at Nikolai's words. Bloody Russian and his  _lady friends_. Rolling his eyes, he locked the cubicle door, removed his boxers and then started the shower up. Cold at first,  _biting_  heated skin he felt it patter down his sweat glazed back, grunting as the water heated up. A hand was brushed through his hair as he looked up at the water spraying down on him. The nervousness his thoughts brought him was still there, dangerous. He exhaled heavily, head shaking as he rubbed a hand across his skin, wiping away blood and dirt. Maybe he was just  _lonely_. It had been some time since he'd  _been_  with someone, physically, and it's not like he wasn't aware he possessed some attraction to men. It had even been explored in the past, but it had been so long since he'd felt the  _tingling_  alongside it – he'd forgotten what that  _meant_.  
An arm stretched out, palm pressing against the tiled wall as the other hand drifted down his own abs, though they were far less chiselled compared to Soap's. He started to think –  _what if they were Soap's abs_? Brows scrunched into a scowl and he hissed angrily, throwing the fist at the wall, which he immediately regretted, clutching at the knuckles. " _Bugger_!"  
Sighing, he folded his arm against the wall, leaning forwards to rest is forehead against his forearm. Then, the hand  _dared_  to drift downwards again, until it reached it's  _intended_  location. Tightly, he clutched himself, breath raspy as he freed himself of  _some_  tension. Words didn't leave his mouth, only the odd mutter and groan, but his mind was a cascading waterfall and he hated it. It was a sin, to think about the Scot as he –  _dealt_  with matters, but he couldn't stop himself. Couldn't avert his thoughts. "What the  _fuck_ …" He grumbled, frowning. It's complicated and that infuriated him. He didn't like  _not knowing_  himself. He saw himself as a stranger.

Fingers curled and his teeth clenched, eyes tightening as he gained release. The moment the water stopped and he stepped into the cold air, he realized just how  _exhausted_  he was. Last ounces of energy rinsed from him, he changed into the fresher clothes before retreating into the corridor. At least he knew there was no evidence of flush, face of concrete, he walked back to where he'd previously been with Nikolai. The Russian wasn't there however, most likely off with one of his  _lady friends_ , but Price entered anyway – seating himself. Tired eyes, hard blue blinked several times but soon he found his head drooping down for rest and after trying to fight it, he eventually lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews/comments are really helpful and motivating if you have time! I'm so glad people are enjoying it ! Remember, this is part one of three under Memory Three's chapter so just bare this in mind if questions for this part haven't been answered yet.


	5. Memory Three - Part 2 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are super helpful if you have time <3

"Price!" The same blue eyes, except slightly brighter this time, shot open and he scrambled for the gun at his hip, expecting to be attacked. Further observation revealed it to be no other than Nikolai, peering in with a grin on his face.

Groaning, Price moved his head around, feeling the ache setting into his neck from the way he'd fallen asleep. " _What_?"

"Sorry, I did not want to wake you but you should know that your friend is  _out_  of operation."

"Come again?" Price asked, already on his feet and approaching the other.

Nikolai nodded, confirming Price had heard correctly. "He is  _unconscious_ , but the doctors have done what they can."

"They bloody  _better_  'ave. Where is 'e?"

"Da, come," Nikolai gestured, starting off up the corridor. The room he was taken into was less occupied than the other rooms he'd seen. Soap was on a makeshift hospital bed, hooked up to all kinds of  _unfriendly_  looking things. His hands were wrapped in bandage and plaster coated all but the fingers to ensure hand movements didn't interrupt with the healing. There were numerous plasters on the right side of his face and he was connected to a line that looked like morphine. Price didn't doubt that when the Scot wakes, he'd be in a world of pain – or bliss, depending on how much they were giving him. "I located shirt for him, so he does not get cold," Nikolai said. It wasn't much, merely a white t-shirt that clung too tightly to Soap's upper body for his own good. "Here is the doctor now," Nikolai pointed out, breaking Price from his thoughts.

A man approached them, gloves on and a clipboard under his arm. "You are  _friend_  of Captain MacTavish, yes?" He inquired, looking to Price.

The Captain blinked. He didn't  _care_  for introductions, he wanted to know how his soldier was doing. "What did you deal with?"

"We are looking at split skin, you see from plasters, he took  _nasty_  blow to his eye which will be swollen for time. This is only  _black eye_  though, maybe two weeks and it  _fades_."

"What about his  _hands_?" Price pressed.

"Ah yes. Many knife wounds, very painful."

"I know it was bloody  _painful_  for 'im, I wanna know how the  _surgery_  went! Are all the doctors 'ere  _muppets_ , Nikolai?"

The Russian doctor paused, regaining his train of thought – albeit broken. "Surgery, of course! Is good. Wounds have been stitched, but will need time for healing. A  _lot_  of healing. No playing with guns but  _much_  rest."

_Playing with guns_. Right. At least this meant Soap was going to be okay. "How much rest are we talking? I 'aven't got a problem with it, but 'e's a  _stubborn_  bastard."

"Hm. No cast after two weeks. Clean the wound and –  _how_  you say – put more bandage, yes?"

It's painful. Especially for someone with as  _little_  patience as Price. "Alright, an' 'ow long will he 'ave to wear the bandage? You know, how long before 'e's up an' running again?"

"Bandages for three more weeks. Then, let  _breathe_  to complete the healing. Together, maybe two plus months."

_Two plus months_! There was so much to do, and Soap would be bloody  _gutted_. There was  _no way_  he could keep the lad out of action for that long. "Bugger. An' there's no way we can… speed up the process?"

The doctor shook his head. "That would be  _bad_  idea."

Sighing, Price pulled the boonie hat from his head and scrunched it in his grip. Damn.

"I will come back when he wakes. We must check for nerve damage."

Price watched the doctor turn and exit the room, unaware that he was  _glaring_. It wasn't the doctors fault, but he was angry and he had to expel it  _somehow_. Punching things in public view was something he'd worked hard to cease, but it was  _difficult_.  
For the time being, he seated himself beside Soap's bed.

"Will you be resting?" Nikolai asked.

"If you're serious, you obviously don't know me  _at all_ , Nikolai," Price mused.

The other huffed. "I did not think so."

Price remained quiet as he watched Nikolai exit. The quiet stayed after, too. Hours passed as he sat and watched Soap rest, the Scot's expression relaxed and peaceful and that's  _all_  he needed to know. That he wasn't  _suffering_. Nikolai would bring a cup of bitter coffee for him every now and again, and Ghost and Roach visited to check on him, but mostly it was  _just_  Price. He faded in and out of sleep, but more often than not he was wide awake, albeit  _forcefully_. Nikolai continued to insist that he rest but Price dreaded Soap waking up alone in some random, sterile scented hospital in pain. Christ, when had he become so  _concerned_  about him! It was  _weird_. But he couldn't help it. It was just a natural feeling that bleed from within him, no matter how uncomfortable or unwanted.

He was certain an entire day had passed, a full 24 hours, perhaps more. The anticipation had continued to grow, to the point where Price was sat on the very  _edge_  of his chair, shaking – though that could've been from the coffee. Bitter  _sludge_ , just the way he knew it. An acquired taste, and even he didn't  _like_  it much, but it was what a military man knew. It was the only thing  _homely_  about this place.

A few more hours had passed and the only times Price would get up was to reluctantly relieve his bladder, but he'd always  _race_  back to his seat. He'd ordered Ghost and Roach to call for a ride back to base, although base wasn't the same as it once was. It was full of Russian loyalists and  _constantly_  makeshift. At least that was something  _off_  his mind. Exhaustion looming again, Price found his eyes closing, head tilting forwards when something stirred beside him. Groaning, sounds of discomfort and the mumbo jumbo of unmistakable Scottish brogue. Price practically flew from his seat, turning to the other and sure enough, Soap's peaceful expression and become  _disgruntled_ , his eyes clenched shut as he tried to look around.

"Wh- ah shite," Soap complained. "Toes 'n' fingers but  _nae_  they've taken my bloody  _eyeballs_!"

Price stared for a moment, for once in his life  _speechless_.

"Where th' bloody hell  _am_  I? Ah'm so sick an' tired of bein' – of bein'  _ignored_!"

The irony was that he'd just woken from a near twenty-nine-hour sleep. "You're alright, Soap.  _I'm_  here," Price reassured.

Soap seemed to jump at the voice, eyes still clamped shut as he looked in the older man's direction. "Price!? Am I  _dead_?"

Brows furrowed. "What? No. No, Soap. You're  _alright_. You're alive."

The other snorted. "Would've though' you'd 'ave kicked my arse  _by now_."

"Why would I do that?"

Soap bit his lower lip, brows creasing in thought as he used his head to gesture for Price to come closer. " _C'mere_. I can't say it too loudly, mate!" Considering his voice was already  _significantly_  raised. It did soften, however, when Price leaned closer. Licking his lips, Soap seemed to be working up something  _big_  when he whispered "'cause I fucked up."

Price was, at first, shocked,  _to a degree_  by the other's words.  _What_  had he fucked up? Did he mean the mission? "No, you  _didn't_  you muppet."

"Aye, I did. Listen, Price, ah've been thinkin'  _long_  an' hard about it. I  _fucked up_.  **All**  of i'."

Price shook his head, even though Soap couldn't see it. He realized that this was the  _morphine_  talking, but it was clearly something on the lad's mind. Had he been overthinking it in his sleep? "Stayed bloody  _brave_ , that's what you did," Price informed.

It was Soap's turn to be surprised, his eyebrows raising up now as though he'd just been given some unexpected news. " _Brave_!? Like the wee  _lady_?" He paused, smirking. Somehow, Soap had transformed that into ' _you behaved like a sixteen-year-old girl'_. "A' you tryin' tae crack a  _funny_ , Price?"

Should he give up? "Soap,  _open_  your eyes."

"Ah'm bloody tryin' mate! They're not there! Bet the scabby wankers 'ave taken 'um!"

He  _would_  persist with the eyes, but maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. One of the eyes was blackened by bruising and swollen and Price really didn't want to draw Soap to any of the  _pain_  right now. "How're you feeling?"

As though considering, Soap hushed before shrugging. "Can I be  _honest_  with you?"

" _Please_ ," Price insisted.

"Am I in someone else's body?"

Well, he certainly wasn't expecting  _that_. He can't help the smirk that tugs at his lips. He had to wait a moment, pull himself together before continuing the conversation. "Why'd you ask, mate?"

Soap barked a laugh. "You're a  _cheeky_  bastard you are! Wha' dae you  **mean**   _why'd_  I ask?  _You_  asked how I'm feelin' an' I'm tellin' you I feel like ah'm in someone else's body! Not a fan of bloody  _mind games_ , old man…"

Mind games. Right. "Well you're in  _your_  body, that's f' sure."

The Scot grinned, leaning closer to Price ever so slightly, his words quiet again. "How d'you know it's  _my_  body? My body could be like  _lots_  of bodies!"

Oh, it was Soap's body alright, he wouldn't admit it out-loud but Soap was wrong. There was only one Soap and –  
What was he  _saying_?

"That's a tough one, that," Price retorted. Just go with the flow. He didn't realise he'd want Soap to go back to sleep quite so soon.

"Ahh – hah,  _gotcha_!"

Price wasn't really sure what he'd been  _got_  on, but he passed it off as more  _shite_. He noticed the doctor enter the room and after seeing Soap was lucid, somewhat, he approached them. "Ah, Captain MacTavish, how are we feeling?"

Soap was shocked by another presence, sitting back in bed, overdramatically surprised. "Bloody hell did  _you_  come out of  _nowhere_! Listen mate, since you're here now, I don't suppose you could tell me where they've put my eyes?"

The doctor's expression was entirely bewildered. He glanced over to Price, who could see the broken English wasn't  _computing_. "He seems to think 'is eyes 'ave been  _stolen_ ," Price notified, followed by acting out eyes opening, and the nodding over to Soap, who's eyes were still scrunched up. That seemed to make more sense.

"That is okay, my friend! We will  _find_  them, please do not worry," the doctor assured. He obviously thought the same as Price, the eyes were better left  _untouched_  for now.

"That's easy f'r  _you_  tae say.  _You've_  still got  _yours_ ," Soap scoffed.

Truthfully, Price was looking forward to telling Soap all  _about_  this when he was fully lucid.

"Captain MacTavish, I must ask  _favour_  of you," the doctor said.

" _Another_  favour? Isn't sittin' in here favour  _enough_?" Apparently, he wasn't aware that he was sitting where he was for  _himself_.

"Just something small, Captain."

" _Go on then_ ," the Scot grunted.

"Thank you! Alright, I need you to  _wiggle_  fingers, only gently,  _if_  you can. Up and down, left and right."

Soap waited for a moment, keeping his face directed at them as he attempted to do as he'd been asked. His expression edged on pain when he complied, thumb wiggling, followed by the index, middle, ring and little. Then, he wiggled them all together, gritting his teeth.

That was enough for the doctor. "Well done, that is all, I will leave now and come back later, yes?"

"Wha'ever mate, just bring me back some bloody water. I think ah'm havin' a  _drought_!"

Price shifted over to the doctor, who'd taken several steps away from them. "That was for the nerve damage, right?"

"Yes. He is  _lucky_  man, Captain Price. There does not seem to be noticeable nerve damage, but I will conduct another test when he wakes properly."

Satisfied, Price sent the man on his way, returning to his friend.

" _Sorry_ , Price," Soap muttered, out of the blue.

"For what?"

" _Dunno_. Just feel bad about somethin'."

Price scratched at his head, noticing that his hat was still clutched in his hand. Placing it back on, he sat back in his chair and sighed. "You've go' nothin' t' feel sorry  _about_  lad."

Soap merely huffed, trying to lift his hands to wiggle them again, hissing sharply – which caught the older man's attention.

"You don't wanna be doin' that, mate. Leave 'em alone, eh? Why don't you try an'  _relax_?  _Close_   _your_ -" he paused, clearing his throat. "Lean back an' see if you can fall asleep."

"You gonna sing me a  _song_?" Soap hummed, sounding hopeful.

"In your bloody  _dreams_ , mate!" Price snorted.

There was another pause, seconds felt like minutes before Soap hummed again. "Go tae sleep?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. "You gonna  _watch me_ , like you always do?"

Price's brows  _flew_  up. " _What_ did you say?"

"You heard me. You always sit 'n'  _stare_  a' me when ah'm not lookin'. Or at least  _you_   _think_  ah'm not."

That  _wasn't true_! Well, maybe it was, but he never did it  _intentionally_! Did he? He tended to just fade off into  _somewhere_ , fixed on something, and a lot of the time it  _happened_  to be Soap.  _Purely_  coincidental…  
"You're all bloody  _doped up_ , Soap, you're talking  _bollocks_ ," Price declared.

"Wha'ever, old man. I know ah'm right an' so d' you," and with that, Soap turned his head away from Price, most likely to either  _fake_  sleep or actually try to catch some.

The sole emotion he could single out was panic, but he didn't understand why. Soap without the morphine would never be so bold as to  _accuse_  him of such. But still, Price was now having to face it and that's what he wanted to  _avoid_. Sighing, his eyes stared off in the distance,  _away_  from Soap – purely out of spite. Childish, but at heart he was.

A few more hours passed, Price having fallen asleep with his neck craned to the side of the chair. He was woken by strange  _choking_  noises, but a piercing cry made him jolt upright, eyes flittering. Soap was awake again, but apparently more with the  _real_  world this time as he sounded vaguely aggressive. " _Where_  am I!?" The Scot shouted, noticeably still having difficulty seeing out of one eye. "Are you  _listenin_ ' tae me y'  _wanks_? Where's my  _shite_?"

Price stood, approaching the younger carefully, so to not startle him. "Soap,  _calm_  down!"

One azure hue flicked over to Price, he was out of breath. The older assumed he'd been dreaming, and by the cry he guessed it was about recent events. "Price? I –  _how_  did I –"

"You've been through some  _shit_ , Soap. A fair amount. You need to calm down an' I'll explain what's goin' on."

Soap nodded, brows furrowing at his hands. He attempted to turn, so that his legs could hang over the edge but nudged one of his hands in the process and he winced, clutching the limb to his chest. "Fuckin' –  _forgot_  about that!  _Shite_!"

The older Captain's arms stuck out as though about to catch a falling child. "No, Soap you have to sit  _still_!"

" _Now_  you tell me."

"Do you remember… what happened?  _Any_  of i'?"

"Aye," he groaned. "Bloody Russian jobby fucked me  _right_  up didn't 'eh." There was a pause as he seemed to gather his thoughts, a frown brushing over his features. "I don't know uf ah've told you already, but I'm sorry Price."

Again, huh? Price shook his head. "Nothin' t' be sorry about, lad."

"They caught me  _sleepin'_. Ah'm sorry, I'm  _better_  than tha', Sir."

"Oi, I said you're  _clear_ , alright? Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're still breathing. You're like a bloody  _cat_ , flashin' those nine lives around, eh?"

"I'm  _tellin_ ' you, Price, ah'm  _better_  than tha'. Fuckin'  _gutted_ , if I'm bein' honest."

Price leaned in closer, so only Soap would hear his voice. "Listen, lad, I don't know what kind'uv  _guilt complex_  shit you're dealin' with but you're not hearin' me. I'm  _proud_  of you, alright? You pulled yourself through some real  _shit_  back there. Stop makin' such a bloody  _feast_  of yourself."

He could see the way Soap's jaw clenched in response to Price's words, most likely to keep anymore  _negativity_  from slipping out. Knowing Price, he guessed next he'd get a slap upside the head and he wasn't  _good_  for that right now. Quietly, the Scot nodded, uncertain of what to do or say after the scolding.

"Morphine looks like it's worn off. How're you feeling?" Price filled the silence, quite frankly tired of it.

" _Like_  the morphine's worn off," Soap confirmed.

Price chuckled softly. "Little  _bugger_ ," he squinted, causing Soap's lips to curve – barely. "We're working on gettin' you back home, lad."

" _Home_ , Price?"

"Yeah. If you're feeling  _that_  guilty then consider this your punishment. But you've got to take some time to  _heal_. Those hands aren't good for anything right now other than rest."

" _More_  time off?" Soap complained. He'd recently been off due to the stab wound, thanks to Shepherd. Just back in the fight and he's knocked out,  _again_. "How  _much_  more time off?"

"Doctor said two months, maybe more."

The look on Soap's face was both heart-breaking and priceless. "Two bloody – Price, I'll never  _make_  it. I'll  _die_  of boredom! There'll be nothin' tae do! That knife wound was a pain in my arse an' now–"

"Brought this on  _yourself_ , mate. If you don't want to keep 'avin' time off then maybe you'll take my advice on bein' less  _reckless_. The hero doesn't  _always_  come home with stars. Sometimes 'e doesn't even come home  _again_. Which one would you rather be?"

_Starless_ , with future opportunities? Or dead.

"I don't have anyone tae come home  _to_ , Price," Soap said. His tone was calm, no sign of obvious sorrow but the words still pleaded for Price to frown.

It wasn't pity that flared inside him, but  _frustration_. A pinch of loneliness, longing surging, growing and he had to clear his throat to distract himself. "You might not have someone t' come home  _to_ , but you've got a team who at  _least_  want you to  _come home_."

"Tha' was really  _selfish_  of me tae say. Sorry, these places always make me feel shitty 'n' sorry f'r myself. At least – at least let me stay at  _base_? I could – could train the FNGs! There's nothin' wrong with my  _voice_!" The FNGs weren't the same anymore, either. Merely new Russian loyalists looking to assist but didn't have much knowledge of fighting. Still, it would be something for Soap to do.

That idea wasn't half bad. "You're tellin' me that  _bollocks_  you talk is  _supposed_  to sound like that?" Price jested, earning him a snort and playful glare.

"As a man wrapped in bandages I can safely say tha' was  _cruel_."

"You want a doctor's note, mate?"

Soap rolled his  _functioning_  eye. "The bloody  _sass_  in  _this_  one!" They chuckled together, shaking their heads as Soap's mind continued to drift, gaze falling to his shirt. "This isn't mine," he stated.

Price almost barked a laugh at that. Such an innocent acknowledgement. "It's not," Price confirmed. "But they 'ad to rid you of your other things because they weren't…  _sanitary_."

"I don't suppose you found my boots?" Soap inquired.

"Nah mate, didn't even realise they were missing."

"Bastard took 'um from me. Favourite fuckin' boots as well," he sighed.

Something about having Soap around, fully lucid – he might note, was just …  _nice_. He'd lost a  _lot_  of people. Soap had managed to squeeze his way in even after Price closed himself off. The awareness of what he'd done earlier rose to mind like a  _haunting_  and his brows twitched. He felt, somewhat,  _ashamed_  of himself.

"You alright, Price?" Soap had noticed the faint contortion of Price's expression.

He blinked himself back, finding Soap staring at him.  _The irony_. "Yeah, sorry just – was thinkin' about something that's all."

The mood remained peaceful, all discomfort gone. They were just grateful for each other's company, talking didn't have to take place to  _enforce_  that. On another note, however, Soap seemed to be distracted by his own thoughts before glancing at Price, giving him a weak smile. " _Thanks_ , Price."

"For what?"

"F'r  _savin_ ' me. Again. I don't see any bloody  _wings_  an' yet you always seem tae be the one pluckin' me out of shite creek."

Price would say he'd lost count of how many times he'd saved Soap's life, but then he'd have to discuss that he'd lost count of how many times Soap had saved  _his_. It was a mutual respect. Soap was part of his team – he would do the same for the  _others_. Right? "You're alright, lad."

Suddenly, Soap seemed to have an  _epiphany_  of some kind, eyes widening, one less so than the other, as a hand reached up at his throat and patted. Wincing again, he'd forgotten about the hands and snarled, cussing words Price found  _impossible_  to decipher.

"What are you looking for?" Price asked.

"My tags!" Soap stated, distress wracking his tone. "The skimpy  _bastard_  took 'em off me back at–"

Before he could finish his sentence, Price had reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the tags he'd taken from the dead Russian's hand before evacuating Soap. The Scot halted, mid-sentence, blue hues gazing at the dangling metal, in what looked like awe. " _How_  did you–"

"I mean  _he_  obviously wouldn't be needing 'em any time soon," Price smirked, picturing the Russian's limp form, hole blasted through his skull as blood pulsed out onto stone. That was one bullet definitely  _not_  wasted.

"Price I – don't know wha' tae  _say_!"

"Now there's a first," Price remarked.

"Could you just… slip 'um over my head?"

The older Captain raised a brow before doing as he'd been asked. They clattered onto the Scot's chest,  _at home_. Price did his best to hold back a relieved smile, Soap didn't need to see that. He'd probably hold it against him.

"That's bloody  _thoughtful_  tha' is," Soap grinned. "Didn't know you were such a  _sop_ , old man."

"Don't make me regre' it."

" _Never_ ," Soap teased.

"Give it another day. Then, we'll head off t' base, I'm sure Ghost's got  _plenty_  of questions."

"I was wonderin' why it was so bloody  _quiet_!" Soap was surprised. He wouldn't say it out-loud, but he'd  _forgotten_  about everything else. In the time that he'd been speaking to Price, it had  _just been_  Price. Roach and Ghost hadn't even  _occurred_  to him! Did that make him a bad Captain? A  _selfish_  one? He'd make up for it. Still, Price had been …  _enough_. And not in an overwhelming way, but something about it was  _nice_. Knowing that he had Price's  _full_  attention. He always longed for that. Coming to the realization that Price had stayed by his side, even  _after_  saving him. He wondered what had been going through the old man's mind. What currently  _was_! But he knew better than to  _ask_. The promise was there though, another day and he'd be off. Where? He didn't know, as long as it wasn't another bloody  _infirmary._


End file.
